


A Boring Stakeout

by silentdescant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Kidnapped Derek Hale, M/M, Nogitsune Trauma, Rescue Missions, Stakeout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 15:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16452887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: From @DeeVrishchika: BAMF FBI Stiles (you know me) saving Derek from trouble. It's their first meeting after many years and Stiles didn't know that it was Derek he was saving.





	A Boring Stakeout

**Author's Note:**

> A twitter prompt from Dee that turned into something long enough to be posted on its own. <3 Love this concept.

The passenger door opens and a McDonald’s bag lands heavily on Stiles’s lap as Jessie clambers into the tiny sedan. It’s supposed to be inconspicuous, but it just makes Stiles long for his own car, with enough leg room, and a tall enough ceiling that his hair doesn’t brush against it. He digs through the fast food excitedly, but then looks up at Jessie and tries to convey his betrayal.

“Where are the fries?” he asks.

She has the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry, I forgot. Figured you needed protein more than carbs.”

Stiles doesn’t follow any particular diet, but she’s probably right. Still, he grumbles and shoves half a burger in his face. At least Jessie is someone he gets along with, unlike the past three agents who have cycled through shifts in this car with him.

“What did you do to the boss to land stakeout duty all week, anyway?” she asks.

Stiles thinks about McCall’s smug, condescending smirk and his fist tightens automatically. He’d love to punch that smile right off McCall’s stupid face.

“A lot less than I wanted to,” Stiles mutters.

The punishment has been effective, though; Stiles is so bored out of his mind staking out the industrial part of town affectionately known as the Murder Warehouse for days on end that he would welcome the opportunity to sit at his desk and write up his reports.

“Anything happening here?” Jessie asks, though she knows it’s been quiet. It’s been quiet for weeks. But this warehouse has a reputation: people go in and bodies come out. The death toll has climbed high enough that it warrants 24/7 surveillance, even though there’s been no sign of activity for a solid month. Maybe the bad guys spotted their tail and skedaddled, but Stiles doubts it. They just have to be patient.

Patience is not one of Stiles’s strengths.

They stay quiet for a while. Jessie sips her lemonade until the sound of the straw becomes obnoxious, then she grabs two water bottles from the cooler in the backseat. Stiles takes one gratefully and strikes up a conversation.

Jessie’s one of the good ones; serious about her job, committed to helping people, the whole nine yards, but not so uptight as to be the asskisser type McCall favors. They gossip about him for a few minutes, though Jessie’s careful not to say anything too negative. Stiles doesn’t have the same qualms.

“I would wring his fucking neck if I could,” he says.

Jessie chuckles and says, under her breath, “Yeah, if you could reach.”

“And that’s another thing!” Stiles cries, glad to be on the subject. “He’s so fucking tall, I think he’s actually inhuman. That, or he took way too many steroids as a high school asshole.”

Jessie eventually asks why Stiles has such a hate-on for him, and Stiles falls quiet. “I’ve known him since I was a kid,” he explains. “There was just a lotta… bad shit.”

It’s hard to forget McCall’s arms around him, pulling him forcefully from a nightmare. It’s hard to forget the comfort of his strong hold, for one moment cutting through the terror that plagued Stiles’s teenage years. He shudders. There’s a reason Stiles turned away from that life, and as much as he hates McCall, he’s grateful for the opportunity to protect people in a… more mundane way.

He pushes back the memories and says, “He’s not a bad person. I just don’t like him.”

Jessie senses his change of mood and starts talking about her roommate’s boyfriend, a loveable idiot who forgets about things like water boiling on the stove when making hard boiled eggs. She’s describing the smell of burnt eggs exploding up high enough to stain the ceiling when Stiles sees movement at the corner of the building. He squints through the darkness and tunes out Jessie’s voice.

There are two people getting out of a shiny black SUV. One of them grabs a duffel bag from the backseat. The other unlocks the warehouse door and pulls it open. They shut it behind them.

“Jessie. Movement, northeast corner.”

“Are you serious?” She grabs the camera and zooms in. “I can’t read the plate from this angle.”

“They just went inside, maybe we’ll catch it as they leave.”

“If they leave.”

Another black SUV pulls up and parks alongside the first. It’s like they’re advertising they’re bad guys, with these cars and dark clothes.

“You got ‘em?” Stiles taps his fingers on the steering wheel, itching to get a closer look with the zoom lens.

“Looks like four. Two in the front and two in the back. Windows are tinted.”

The two on the passenger side of the car climb out and circle around to the trunk while the others stand around looking menacing. One of them carries a rifle.

“They’re armed,” Jessie says. “They’ve all got handguns, holstered. Two have rifles. One drawn.”

The shutter clicks away as Jessie snaps as many shots as she can from this distance. With any luck, they’ll have a clear picture of the guys’ faces to add to their wall back at the office. Stiles bounces a little in his seat, tense with the anticipation of something finally _happening_.

Then the two guys at the trunk pull a body out and Stiles’s blood runs cold.

“Oh, shit,” Jessie murmurs.

He’s not dead, Stiles thinks, because there’s a cloth bag over his head, but he’s clearly unconscious. The two bad guys hoist him up by his arms and drag him toward the warehouse door. The other two act as front and rear guard, opening and closing the warehouse behind them.

“We can’t let them have a hostage,” Stiles says.

“They already have a hostage, Stiles.”

“People go in, bodies come out,” Stiles says.

He checks his service weapon and zips his jacket. Jessie grabs for him and misses.

“Stiles! This isn’t procedure. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Call for backup. Stay quiet. We’ve still got the element of surprise.”

He shoves a radio into his pocket but they don’t have earpieces. It’ll just be in case of emergencies.

“You can’t go in there alone,” Jessie snaps. She holsters her own weapon, looking determined, but Stiles puts his hand heavily on her shoulder.

“Call for backup and watch the perimeter. I’m just gonna see what I can see, maybe snap some pictures. We’ve gotta catch these guys in the act to make anything stick, you know that.” He’ll also try and extract the hostage without authorization, but Jessie knows that; there’s no reason to say it aloud and make her responsible too.

Stiles leaves without another word, running down the shadowy side of the street as quietly as he can. There haven’t been any more SUVs, and there’s no sign of cameras or established security, so Stiles is pretty sure it’s just six guys and a hostage inside.

Six _armed_ guys. With much more powerful weapons than Stiles’s own handgun.

Whatever. Stiles will cross that bridge when he gets to it. He’s always been good at improvising.

He climbs up a fire escape and peers in one of the upper floor windows. It’s completely dark inside. This floor looks unused; papers and trash litter the floor, and some of the office furniture is broken. He can only hope they don’t patrol the area, as he worms his way through a gap in one of the windows.

A hurried inspection reveals he was correct; the offices on the second floor are all empty and abandoned. The only light comes from the warehouse floor downstairs.

Stiles gets his first real look at the hostage then; the the man’s been stripped of his shirt and dumped on the floor. His hands are bound with heavy metal manacles, and there’s a table full of equipment beside him. Electrical stuff, a car battery and jumper cables, blades and knives, a cattle prod. Torture is definitely in this guy’s future if Stiles doesn’t get him out.

He sneaks down the metal staircase with his gun drawn, listening for any change in the voices from across the room. Most of the suspects are in an old breakroom, laughing and talking loudly. There’s one guy standing guard near the hostage, smoking a cigarette and looking down at his phone.

It’s not hard to get up close and personal behind him and cover his mouth. Stiles chokes the guy out as quietly as he can, laying him carefully on the concrete floor before advancing to the pool of light to check on the hostage.

As he gets closer, though, Stiles notices the curve of a black tattoo high up between the guy’s shoulder blades.

“Oh, shit,” Stiles whispers. He creeps forward and touches the familiar triskele, then turns Derek onto his back. There’s purple powder clinging to the fibers of the bag over his head.

“Shit shit shit shit shit,” Stiles hisses under his breath as he whips the wolfsbane-laced bag off. “Derek, wake up.” He slaps Derek’s cheek lightly. “ _Wake up_.”

There’s a loud burst of laughter from the breakroom. These guys are all henchmen. Derek hasn’t been tortured yet. They’re waiting for the boss, which means the boss is on his way, which means Stiles needs to get Derek out of here _now_. He pulls the radio from his pocket. “Jessie, I’m expecting company. Do not come in. I repeat, do not follow me.”

He finds the key to the manacles on the table of equipment and quickly frees Derek’s hands. He slaps Derek’s face again, to no avail. “Der, wake up,” he snaps. “Wake up or I’m gonna fuckin’ punch you, you asshole. Come on, we don’t have time for this.”

Stiles grabs Derek under the armpits and heaves—“Shit, dude.” It’s been several years, but Derek’s way heavier than Stiles remembers. He feels almost like he did back when…

“Oh shit, are you an alpha again?”

Stiles pulls Derek into a shadowy alcove behind a big piece of machinery and positions him flat on his back. They’ve been in this position far too many times for Stiles’s comfort. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts both Agent McCall and Scott.

**911\. Murder warehouse = hunter HQ. DH kidnapped. Need cover.**

Scott replies a few seconds later: **OMW. Address?**

Scott’s father answers with the address of the warehouse and a command that Stiles get the hell out of the warehouse. Stiles ignores him. He’ll provide whatever bullshit story Stiles needs to smooth this over at the agency.

There’s a shout of alarm as one of the henchmen finds his knocked out buddy, then a rush of booted footsteps and yelling as they realize Derek’s missing. Stiles is out of time and way too far away from the door.

He nudges Derek with his foot. “Wake up, asshole,” he says halfheartedly, then peeks around the side of the machine with his gun leveled.

The guys have fanned out to search for Derek, but they’re not coming this way quite yet.

Stiles leans over Derek and clenches his hand into a fist. “You better fuckin’ stop me, Der,” he whispers, then throws all his weight forward into a punch.

Derek catches his fist in his palm and stares up at Stiles with wide, scared eyes. “Stiles?” he breathes. “What are you—”

Stiles drops his body forward and presses his lips clumsily to Derek’s to shut him up. The relief coursing through him feels like a drug; Stiles is giddy with it, grinning wildly. “Oh, thank god. Need the backup, buddy. Why didn’t you tell me you were an alpha again?”

Derek stares up at him for a few long, silent seconds, during which Stiles realizes they haven’t talked about _anything_ , much less Derek’s werewolf status, in years. But then Derek’s eyes flash red and he smirks and says, “It’s a recent development.”

They untangle from each other wordlessly and crouch side by side in the shadows. The henchmen are getting closer in their methodical search of the warehouse. They just have to get past them and make a break for the door. Stiles points it out and Derek nods.

“FBI, huh? Congrats, I guess.”

“Can we talk about this after I rescue you like a pretty princess?”

“This isn’t Super Mario.”

“I’m gonna call you Princess Peach from now on,” Stiles says with a wink.

“My hero,” Derek replies, deadpan. “They’re coming.”

Five minutes and five bodies later, Derek and Stiles walk out the door, only a little bit covered in blood. Derek looks worse off, with the blood shining against his skin, but none of it’s his own. Or if it is, the wounds have already healed.

“You gotta get out of here before backup arrives,” Stiles says. “The FBI will want to question you if they see you.”

“What about her?” Derek nods to the little surveillance sedan down the block. Jessie’s climbing out, looking horrified.

“Just go, okay? I’ll talk to her. Agent McCall will come up with some cover story. Don’t worry about it. Just get out of here.”

“Stiles—”

“Derek, if you don’t disappear in the next five seconds—”

Derek grasps Stiles by the arm, reeling him close enough that they share breath. Stiles looks away from Derek’s piercing eyes, rubbing his nose self-consciously. Everything smells like blood and fear, and it must be even worse for Derek.

“I didn’t call because I thought you wanted to be out,” Derek tells him quietly.

“I am. I mean, I do. Want that.”

“I’m glad you’re doing okay.”

“Thanks. You, uh. You too. I mean, now that I saved your ass.”

“My hero,” Derek murmurs.

Stiles sees his throat bob as he swallows. He stares at the stubble on Derek’s neck for a long time before Derek speaks again.

“I’m not gonna try to pull you back to Beacon Hills,” he says. “I’m glad you got out. But I miss you, Stiles.”

Stiles can’t let himself have this, not even just for a moment. He can’t go back to monsters and curses and possession. The thought of getting sucked back into Derek’s world makes anxiety claw at his throat like a visceral demon inside him. He closes his eyes and pulls out of Derek’s arms.

When he opens his eyes again, Derek’s still waiting in front of him, calm and collected, just like always. He’s one of the most constant forces in Stiles’s life.

“I miss you too,” he whispers, “but I can’t—”

“I know,” Derek says simply, and he truly doesn’t seem upset. “I just wanted you to know.”

It settles Stiles’s frayed nerves a little, but the familiar sense of dread has already made a home in Stiles’s gut. He clenches a fist and pushes it down, then releases it with a slow exhale.

“Take care of yourself,” Derek says. “You know how to find me if you need me.”

He’s gone before the flashing blue and red lights come around the corner. Jessie reaches Stiles just about when Agent McCall climbs out of his car to take charge of the scene.

“Stiles! Are you—”

“Agent Elmore, wait here. I’ll need a briefing from you as soon as I finish with Agent Stilinski.”

Stiles feels numb and panicky and he’s glad when McCall guides him with a firm hand to the back of an ambulance to get checked out. None of the blood is his own, he doesn’t think, but his left side is going to be purple and blue for a while.

McCall waits until the EMT confirms he’s got at least one broken rib, then waves the guy away so they can be alone. “What’s the situation?”

“Just cleanup,” Stiles says. “Six hunters. A few might still be alive, but they’re, uh. Incapacitated. They had Derek as a hostage. I went in and got him out.”

“And left a mess behind. Is this going to be a… _thing_ , Stiles? A recurring thing?”

It’s a clumsy code for ‘supernatural circumstances’ and Stiles shakes his head. “No, sir. I just stumbled upon it. On him. I’m not looking for anything more.”

“Alright.” McCall claps him on the shoulder. “I’m going to talk to Elmore while these guys clean you up. Call your dad so I don’t have to. I’ll give you the cover story at the hospital later. Good work, Agent.”

Stiles gives him a smirk he doesn’t entirely feel and tries to put as much attitude into his, “Thank you, sir,” as he possibly can. Seeing Derek again shook him up, but he’ll be back to normal soon. He hopes.

 

 _fin_.


End file.
